


A Twist In Time

by Zania



Category: Quantum Leap, The A-Team (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-01-16
Updated: 2017-10-27
Packaged: 2018-03-07 18:49:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 11,281
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3179249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zania/pseuds/Zania
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The A-Team meets up with two ghosts from their past.  One is seeking their help; the other bears shocking information - they are going to meet a horrible fate, beginning with the death of Hannibal, unless a certain scientist can find a way to change history for the better.  Will the A-Team survive and save their country?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The characters and series involved are the property of their creators, Stephen J. Cannell and Donald P. Bellisario. This fanfiction was written to promote both series, not for profit; no copyright infringement is intended.

**Author's Notes:** This trailer was written in screenplay format.  
 **Technical Note:** For those who are unfamiliar with the term, a Smash Cut is a jarring, sudden transition between two scenes. It is commonly used when going from the opening gambit of a series to the credits (i.e. ER, etc).

**A TWIST IN TIME TEASER**

**FADE IN**

The sun begins to peek over the San Andreas mountains, as the sleeping city of Los Angeles, California sits in the foreground. A light smog covers the area like a blanket, refracting the rays of sunlight to where the morning sky seems like it’s on fire, filled with gorgeous shades of red, orange, and yellow . . . perhaps a foreshadowing of what was to come.

A beautiful, but haunting, instrumental piece of music plays in the background as we hear . . .

**ANNOUNCER**  
The world is full of choices . . .

**FLASH TO WHITE**

**ANNOUNCER**  
Love . . .

John “Hannibal” Smith is in the background, embracing a female in the foreground. Despite his toughness, his ice blue eyes look as if they are about to tear up from the emotion at the reunion. There is an overwhelming look of joy on his face. A reverse angle reveals Margaret Olivia Sullivan, who smiles back at Hannibal and looks at him longingly.

**DISSOLVE TO**

A female is in the background, her back is facing us. We can see her wavy brown hair, but her face is not visible. Despite this, there is something about her that seems very familiar. An arm is wrapped around her shoulders. As our eyes follow the arm, we see Templeton Peck over her shoulder. He is kissing her passionately on the lips.

**FLASH TO WHITE**

**ANNOUNCER**  
Life . . .

Children of various racial backgrounds are gathered around the muscular BA Baracus. He sits outside the youth center on an overturned plastic drum. They are in awe as they watch him demonstrate how to make a craft. A rare smile can be seen upon the lips of the gentle giant, glittering as brightly as his highly polished gold that dangles around his neck.

**DISSOLVE TO**

A close shot of Hannibal shows him in all of his glory. His silver-white hair seems to gleam, and his ice blue eyes are captivating. They appear as if they twinkle brightly, reflecting the smile that rests upon his face. As the camera widens out, we can see the rest of the A-Team. The expression on their faces indicate that they are sharing in the Jazz along with their leader.

**FLASH TO WHITE**

**ANNOUNCER**  
And death.

The distinct sound of a gunshot is heard as we . . .

**DISSOLVE TO**

Hannibal is on his back in a parking lot. He is not moving and, from the distance, it looks as if he may have been knocked out. As the camera pushes in, we see a large pool of blood surrounding the shoulders, neck, and head of the A-Team leader. Red has intermingled with and stained his stunning silver-white hair. Closer yet, and we can see the source of the blood . . . a wound on the Colonel’s neck that has pierced the trachea and severed the jugular vein. Hannibal’s ice-blue eyes are still open, frozen in a death pall as we . . .

**FLASH TO WHITE**

The camera pushes through a murky scene. Particles and debris seem to float weightlessly in this underwater realm, a sign that something foreign is now within these waters. Further still and the cockpit of a jet starts to come into view. The glass of the canopy is still solid, uncracked . . . and there are hands pressed up against it. As the camera moves in closer, we can see that the hand belongs to H. M. Murdock, who is trapped inside. The interior of the cockpit is filled with water and, from the look on Murdock’s face, he has been holding his breath for a long time . . . almost too long. Murdock’s dark eyes are filled with fear, even panic as he realizes that there is no way out. After a beat, Murdock’s eyes roll into the back of his head as his hand falls limply from the surface of the glass, floating in the water-filled cockpit. The last of the life giving oxygen that had been in Murdock’s lungs escapes his lips, rising upward . . . almost as if carrying Murdock’s condemned soul with it.

**FLASH TO WHITE**

Hold a beat as we hear . . .

**ANNOUNCER**  
But what if fate gave you a  
second chance?

**DISSOLVE TO**

Templeton Peck sits in cabin seat on the passenger side of the A-Team van, next to the sliding door. He is wearing a tasteful brown suit with a white shirt and complimenting tie. His hair is impeccably groomed and there is a hint of a smile on his face. Hold a beat before he is encompassed by an aura of blue light that seems alive with electricity. At the peak of the light’s brilliance, we . . .

**SMASH CUT TO**

A montage of images fill the screen, in sync with the increased beat and power of the music. A series of fast paced cuts shows us:

The camera is focused on the right rear wheel well of the A-Team van as the tire spins wildly. Using telephoto compression, our eyes follow the fender backwards until our view rests upon the pursuing dark green military police sedans that seem to be right on the back bumper of the van.

The waters of a lake can be seen, the reflection of the sunlight gently dancing across the surface. After a beat, a green, scaly creature emerges from the depths, making its way ominously towards shore.

BA lands a solid jab on an equally sized and matched opponent, sending him reeling backwards. He stumbles and collapses through a pile of crates, leaving only splintered wood in its place.

A tight, static shot of a mountainous road seems peaceful, relaxing. That quiet calm is disturbed when a white Corvette with a red racing stripe skids into view. Templeton Peck can be seen clearly behind the wheel, and in the passenger seat is the Aquamaniac . . . the head of the costume sticking out past the removed top of the corvette. As the Vette slides out of frame, three military police sedans skid into view as they try to keep up.

Trees seem to fly by as we look down the passenger side of the A-Team van, focusing mainly towards the front. It is obviously traveling at a high rate of speed. After a beat, Hannibal emerges from the passenger window with a silver, 9mm pistol in his gloved hand. The wind whips through his silver-white hair as he fires a shot.

Smoke and flame spew from the engines of a Mig 29 as it struggles to stay aloft. It streaks through the air, the ground quickly approaching as it is losing the fight to maintain altitude. Trees seem to rise in the background as the jet fighter approaches a lake.

**ANNOUNCER**  
Turn back the clock.

**SMASH CUT TO**

The music comes to an abrupt ending, almost as if someone slammed a door shut, as blackness fills the screen. White letters from the title fades into view. Again, the blue aura is visible, surrounding the letters as streaks of white lightning crackle and dance through the color.

**ANNOUNCER**  
A Twist In Time  
(beat)  
Coming soon to a fanfic list  
near you.

Continue to hold on the title as we hear . . .

**HANNIBAL (V. O.)**  
I love it when a plan comes  
together.

**FADE OUT**

**END OF TEASER**


	2. Prologue

_Look to this day,_   
_For yesterday is but a dream_   
_And tomorrow's but a vision;_   
_But today well lived makes every yesterday a dream of happiness,_   
_And every tomorrow a vision of hope._   
_\-- Face, "Family Reunion"_

_On the wheel of life we all go around we are many people at many times._   
_\-- Jack Kerouac, "Rebel Without a Clue"_

  **Prologue**

A blinding light filled the area with an incredible brilliance. Arcs of white lightning danced around the blue energy nimbus that surrounded the body of one individual. In spite of the intensity of this light, it drew no attention to what was happening to the person whom it had enveloped like a wet blanket. It went totally and completely unseen by three others that were nearby . . .

Just as quickly as the radiant light had appeared, it faded. When it did, it revealed a handsome male with well-groomed brown hair and an unusual lock of white hair nestled within the strands above his forehead.

The moment that the roar of a powerfully tuned engine filled his ears, he knew he had arrived wherever this was and, well, whenever this was. As he continued to listen, he could have sworn that he heard what sounded like dirt being kicked up by tires. He opened his green eyes carefully . . . cautiously, almost as if he was uncertain what he would see or find once he did.

His name was Dr. Samuel Beckett, and he had been through this numerous times before . . .

Well, not exactly this particular situation. But more often than not he found himself thrust into the middle of something, and he needed to hopefully and quickly find some kind of clues that would help answer two very important questions.

Who had he Leaped into, and why?

Leaping . . . Quantum Leap. That was the name of his top secret project that he founded, with complete financial backing of the United States government. When he had first gone to them with the idea behind his project, how could they refuse him? He was a brilliant scientist who held seven doctorates, winner of a Nobel Prize in Quantum Physics, and the guy Time Magazine had dubbed as the next Einstein.

The whole idea behind the Project, coupled with his sheer intelligence, was too tempting to pass up. The ability to travel in time? To observe key events within the past in order to gain a better understanding of what had taken place? To understand why people did what they did as situations played out that proved to be critical in the course of human history? As much as the thought was almost unfathomable, so were the benefits. Among the many possibilities, they could finally put an end to various controversies, including the John F. Kennedy assassination.

As proud as he was of what he was able to accomplish, especially with the construction of the first parallel-hybrid computer that actually contained brain tissue samples from himself and his best friend, Rear Admiral Albert Calavicci, the government was starting to get antsy. With the billions of dollars that had been sunk into the construction, several committee members like Weitzman were starting to question the various cost overruns. They started to pressure him to prove his theories, or they were going to pull the funding.

On the eve of when the funding was going to be pulled, he waited until his best friend had left for a date before getting into the Accelerator and trying to prove his theory. He knew that Al would never have allowed him to get in there due to the risks involved, but the last thing he wanted was to see all of his hard work and theories go down the drain without a chance of proving that he was right.

And ultimately, it was that determination that brought him here . . . wherever here was.

If there was one thing that Sam dreaded, it was the beginning of a Leap. He often knew nothing about who his host was, or why he was there, and sometimes Al didn't show up right away to fill him in. What made it worse was when others around him were able to trip him up with a simple question, or if he found himself in the middle of an undesirable situation.

The memory of one such occasion came to the front of his mind . . . a Leap when a little boy with leg braces and crutches was eager to go buy some candy at the local pharmacy. He had asked Sam for permission to go, not knowing that the boy's mother didn't want him to leave the hair salon. The young boy found himself in the right place at the wrong time and became a witness to a murder. In fact, he almost became the next victim . . .

The sound of a gunshot pierced the air, drawing Sam's attention back to the present. His two burning questions of who he had Leaped into and why was going to have to wait for now. He just hoped that his best friend would show up at some point soon and fill him in on who he had Leaped into and what he needed to do. The only problem was that he didn't know how long it would take for his partner to find him. Right now, he was on his own and needed to try and figure out things the best he could.

One thing was certain already . . . beyond the sound of the gunshot, there was no immediate threat of bodily harm. If there had been, it likely would have happened within the first few seconds after he had Leaped in. There were a few times when he hadn't even had time to take note of his surroundings when he had been punched in the face, pulled face first into a doorway, shot in the chest and flung backwards through a window, or even had a newspaper blow right into his face due to an approaching hurricane.

'Focus, Sam,' he mentally admonished himself for getting off track. 'Figure out where you're at and what's around you.'

He was definitely sitting, and as he looked down he noted the grey cabin style seat that he was perched on. It was a pretty comfortable seat and cushioned him against feeling every single bump in the road. Still, he could feel the momentum against his body which made it clear that they were traveling at a high rate of speed. His emerald green eyes, which were rich with color and seemed to reflect only a small portion of his true intelligence, saw the view of the countryside passing quickly by the front windshield. Between that, the roar of the well-tuned engine, and the whirr of the tires, he could clearly tell that he was in a vehicle traveling at a high rate of speed.

His eyes darted from the windshield to the interior of the vehicle. He immediately noticed the dash board with the plastic molding on the center console. There he spotted an AM/FM cassette radio and a car phone. A black CB radio was mounted on the roof above, with the cord swaying back and forth due to the momentum as well.

His gaze then fell upon the two light gray cabin seats in front of him as he realized that he was in a van. Sam glanced to his left and noted another gray cabin seat as well. All three were occupied. He carefully avoided eye contact with the occupants of the seats, who all sat in silence and seemed focused on what was going on outside of the van and where they were going. There was no need to tempt conversation.

The person in the seat to Sam's left had a bright blue shirt, a checkered red flannel shirt that was unbuttoned and tucked into his tan khaki pants, and a weathered brown aviator bomber jacket. He wore a dark blue baseball cap, which concealed most of his brown hair, and he sported black Converse Chuck Taylor sneakers. As he leaned forward, Sam could spot a bit of artwork on the back of the bomber jacket . . . the face of a roaring tiger.

Although he couldn't see much of the features of the person who sat in the seat in front of him . . . the front passenger seat, what Sam was able to see was what looked like a tan jacket and black jeans. He also noted the well groomed silver-white hair, the black leather gloves that the person wore . . . and a cigar. He could smell the distinct flavor of the smoke drifting through the interior of the van and it immediately reminded him of Al.

His green eyes then shifted to gaze at the driver . . . a muscular African American who had an unusual hairstyle. It looked like a Mohawk with a beard and a mustache. What was it called in African cultures . . . a mandika? He wore blue jean overalls and there was a slight hint of red from a top tank that may have been worn underneath. What was really bizarre was the mass of gold chains that dangled from around the driver's neck.

Sam's green eyes then shifted down to look at his own clothing . . . well, the clothing of his host. From what he could see, he was wearing a brown two-piece suit with a white shirt and a matching brown tie. He reached up with his hands and adjusted the knot of the tie, his hands immediately noting the silk threads that it was made of. The shoes on his feet reminded him of an expensive pair of penny loafers that glistened as if they were extremely well polished. He wasn't in a position where he could see a mirror and look at the reflection in it . . . the face of the individual he had Leaped into. Until that opportunity came about, he would have to ride it out for now.

Sam was forced further back into his seat as the van picked up speed. The distinctive sound of a gunshot rang out from behind him . . . he couldn't quite tell where it came from. What he started to notice was the wail of a siren. That sound could only mean one thing . . .

His line of thinking was broken as he heard the gruff tone of the burly driver as he complained, "Man, the Army must be getting better drivers. They're stickin' to us like glue."

"Decker certainly tries. You have to give him that much," the person in the seat in front of him, with the tan jacket, responded with a light chuckle.

The time traveler raised an eyebrow curiously, wondering why the white-haired individual took what seemed to be a serious situation lightly. He had no idea who the other occupants of the van were, but between the gunshots and the sirens emanating from behind them, it was clear that they were being chased. For what, he didn't know and there was a chance that they were going to be captured . . . yet the older man almost seemed entertained by their predicament.

Sam glanced to the person next to him and noticed that his warm, brown eyes practically seemed to light up with excitement. A moment later, his gaze was captured by the driver who shook his head ominously as he mumbled, "He's on the Jazz again."

All the Nobel Prize winner could sputter in response was, "Oh, boy."


	3. Arrivals

_Time is a fine story teller, and history a fond student._  
_\-- Hannibal, "The Big Squeeze"_

_Couldn't you give them name tags?_  
_\-- Sam (glancing heavenward), "How the Tess was Won"_

 

**Chapter 1: Arrivals**

 

MONDAY, MAY 12, 1986  
CEDAR GLEN, CALIFORNIA  
3:30PM PACIFIC TIME

 

                _Leaping around in time, I often found myself in my fair share of unusual situations.  I had been shot at several times, dangling from a trapeze, strapped in an electric chair . . . but never had I found myself trying to outrun law enforcement agents, especially ones from the Army.  I only hoped that we wouldn't get caught before I had the chance to do what was necessary to fix history and Leap out._

 

"Things are never as bad as they seem to be," the white-haired male said with another light laugh, almost to where he seemed amused by the events that were currently unfolding.

"Yeah . . . it's usually worse," Sam commented about his Leaps in a low mutter, not thinking that he was overheard.  He certainly had his fair share of difficult situations, especially when first starting out on a Leap and not knowing what he was getting into right away . . . and this seemed to rank right up there.

"Faceman . . . where's your sense of adventure, muchacho?" the guy in the bomber jacket started to ask in a Texan drawl.  He glanced over at the spot where he thought his teammate was, his eyes widening in shock.  "Y-You're not Face . . ."

Sam tried to maintain a neutral and calm expression even though the first thoughts that entered into his mind was, 'Oh boy . . .'  And Faceman?  Was he referring to the person he had Leaped into?  It was a probability, based on what was happening.

"What ya talkin' about fool?  Face is sittin' there right next to you," the burly driver blasted, much to Sam's relief.

"He's not BA.  It's weird . . . he's wearing Face's clothes, but he isn't the Faceman," the individual sitting next to the time traveler persisted, much to Sam’s dismay. If he persisted, chances were that things were going to go very badly, very quickly.

"Hannibal . . ." the driver started, anger definitely welling up within his tone.  Based on how the driver looked, or at least from what Sam was able to see, he certainly didn't seem like someone you wanted to get mad at you or he'd probably make you regret it.

"I'm tellin' ya, the guy next to me ain't Face!" the guy with the baseball cap and bomber jacket insisted, raising his voice a bit more almost as if he was getting annoyed with the fact that the two in the front of the van didn't believe him.

"Cool it, Murdock.  Let BA concentrate on getting us away from Decker first.  Then you can tell us about the guy you think is sitting where Face is, or about your invisible dog, Billy," the man in the tan jacket said in a firm but gentle tone.

BA . . . Sam didn't know what those initials stood for, but that seemed to be what the others called the driver.  Murdock was apparently the guy sitting next to him, and Hannibal in the seat in front of him.  From what he gathered within this short exchange, this Hannibal seemed to be the leader of the group. He also didn't know who this . . . Decker . . . was or why the Army was chasing them, but he was certain that he was going to find out. He just hoped that it wouldn't be the hard way.

Sam looked over in Murdock's direction, somewhat apprehensively, only to see a pout appear on the pilot's face. Could he see through the aura? It seemed like a distinct possibility based on his reaction, and he didn't seem to like being told to back off his claim.

He heard the engine roar and felt another burst of speed in the desperate attempt to escape their pursuers.  The unmistakable sound of gunshots rang in his ears, originating from the cars behind them.  The others within the van did not duck their heads or react to the sound, and Sam found it very hard to do the same.

"Uh, Hannibal, I think their aim is getting better," Sam commented.  He could almost swear that he heard the sound of bullets whizzing by outside the walls of the van.  If one of them happened to pierce one of the tires, especially at the speed they were traveling . . . that thought alone made the Nobel Prize winner shiver slightly in fear.

"I got my foot to the floor, man, and we ain't puttin' any more distance between them and us," BA added, still trying to put his full attention into driving.  Truthfully, a small amount of concern was creeping into his gruff tone, which he couldn't totally mask from the others.

"Relax guys.  Decker could never catch us." Hannibal noted confidently, taking a puff on his cigar with a blissful look on his face. He seemed certain of their escape, even though they were still being chased. It was almost as if he relished in the idea of being chased, and getting away at the last possible moment

"Colonel, what about the time . . ." Murdock started to say, his face still contorted into a pout, only to be cut off by BA who also chimed in on the current situation.

"Yeah, sucker.  Decker's caught us several times.  This time, there won't be no cavalry comin' to free us since we're all in the van," BA added, knowing where the crazy man was headed with this one.

"Aw," the white-haired Colonel said, somewhat half-heartedly, almost as if disappointed that they weren't also relishing in the moment like he was.  "You guys gotta do these things with style, or it isn't any fun."

"Does that style include actually getting caught by Decker?" Sam questioned, praying that wasn't the case.  He had a good idea that he probably wouldn't be able to change history or Leap if he was stuck behind bars.

"Come on, Face.  I thought you, of all people, understood.  You make him believe that he is going to catch us, and then you slam the door in his face," Hannibal replied with a huge mischievous smile, the light tone returning just as quickly as it had faded.

Dr. Beckett watched in amazement as Hannibal pulled out a silver 9mm pistol and leaned out the driver's side window to fire his own weapon at those chasing them.  Either this guy was ultra brave, incredibly lucky, or totally crazy.

There was a pop, and then a roar from behind him, a strange one that he had not heard before.  That was followed by a loud crash, skidding, and a couple of more crashes.  Seeing Hannibal pull back inside with a huge smile on his face, and comment, "I love it when a plan comes together," Sam could only assume that the results were good . . . at least in the sense that they could escape their pursuers.

That was a relief, but Sam had the feeling that the worst was yet to come . . .

* * *

 

Two Army officers climbed out from the overturned vehicle.  One, an African American wearing the marks of a Captain, looked to be fairly stunned as he dusted off his cap.  He was of average build with a mustache and appeared to be in his late 20s.  The other, an older white male with blondish hair and the marks of a Colonel, bore a look of frustration combined with anger.  His face was worn and haggard, showing the hardship of his years as well as his personality.  His eyes were focused on the spot where the black and gray van had been just a moment before . . .

"How do they keep doing it, sir?" Captain Marcus Crane wondered, shaking his head at the wreckage in disbelief as he watched the other MPs climb out from the other vehicles.

"They're the best, Captain," Colonel Roderick Decker admitted as he straightened his uniform.  His tone had been one of admiration and respect, perhaps even lightly laced with jealousy, for these criminals he tirelessly pursued.  "Their unorthodox style made them the top commando unit in 'Nam.  They had a success rate that no other unit could match up to, and that is what makes them so dangerous even now."

Another Corporal came up to the pair, holding out a green field radio that looked much like a very large cordless telephone handset with a giant antenna.  "Colonel Decker, General Fulbright is on the horn and wants an update on the pursuit," the soldier reported.

Although Decker remained unphased by this news, Captain Crane almost seemed to be annoyed.  This wasn't the best time to get a communication from Fulbright, especially in light of what had just happened.  Crane was worried that this incident was going to force them to hang up all of their uniforms . . . for good.  From what he had heard, even Fulbright had his issues with pursuing the A-Team as well.

"What are you going to tell General Fulbright?" Crane asked.

"As little as possible . . ." Decker noted quietly, his voice indicating that he clearly wasn't looking forward to the conversation that was about to come.  It's not that he hadn't been chewed out before for failing to capture the A-Team, but this time was different since he had been personally put back on the case by General Fulbright himself so now he not only had someone to answer to more directly, but someone that was monitoring his performance and could make a difference in terms of his career and if he'd ever have a chance to get out of that hell hole he had been relegated to.

The Colonel took the radio from the lower ranked soldier and returned his salute, prompting the younger man to dash off.  Raising the massive radio so he could talk into it, Decker started, "This is Colonel Decker . . ."

"Decker, this is General Fulbright.  I want a status report," the voice came across, equally as gruff and straightforward as Decker's was.

"Sir, we were in pursuit of the A-Team and were about to apprehend them.  They opened fire on us and severely damaged our vehicles.  They managed to get away . . ." Decker started, about to go into the next part when he was interrupted.

"Damn it, Decker!  I don't have time for your excuses!  I want results!  If it wasn't for the brass upstairs pressuring me to give you a second chance, you would have been rotting away the rest of your military career in Bangor, Maine!" Fulbright blasted.

"Sir, one of my men reported seeing someone with them that matched the description of Captain Murdock.  If that report is true, I know exactly where the A-Team will be heading," Colonel Decker reported.

"Very well . . . I will keep you on the case for now, but I'd better see some results soon, Colonel Decker, or I will personally put you on the first plane back to that miserable flea bitten assignment!" Fulbright threatened.

"Understood sir.  Decker out," Roderick said, cutting off the radio communication.  The look on his face was enough to tell anyone who came within 10 yards that he was fuming to the point where he could strip some hapless soldier of their rank at the drop of a pin.

* * *

 

LOS ANGELES INTERNATIONAL AIRPORT (A.K.A. LAX)  
LOS ANGELES, CALIFORNIA

 

A slender female with shoulder length wavy brown hair made her way through the Los Angeles International Airport.  She was wearing blue jeans, a white blouse, and carrying nothing more than a brown leather tote bag.  From the pace at which she was walking, it was obvious that she was in a hurry.

The flight had been long and exhausting, but she had no sleep.  She couldn't take the chance of dozing off and having someone rummage through her belongings, or finding herself looking down the barrel of a gun, forced to cooperate against her will.  Even now, she could not stop and let her guard down for an instant.

Her instincts told her that she was being followed, and a quick glance over her shoulder confirmed it.  A suspicious male with sandy blonde hair, wearing sunglasses and a dark suit, was following from a distance.  He had been doing so ever since she got off the plane.  She could only speculate who the guy worked for, but knew for certain what he was after.

After everything that had happened, she knew that she wouldn't be safe until she had returned to the States and found some old friends.  They could protect her.  She was certain of that, after having witnessed first-hand what they had done to help others.  With how abruptly she had left, she wondered if they would even consider helping her now.  Still, she knew that they were the only ones who could make the difference between life and death . . . for not only herself, but million of others.

Right now, she had to focus on trying to lose her tail so she could meet her ride, who was probably waiting for her already.  Her pursuer was good, that much she had to admit, but she had also learned a few things in her time . . .

Taking a moment to look around, she spotted just what she needed . . . a people mover catwalk with metal railings that stretched over a busy street, leading to a parking lot.  As he neared, she noticed that there was a sheet of plexiglass that separated the two sides, which meant that it would be impossible for someone to jump from one side to the other.

She made her way quickly to the moving catwalk and stepped onto the side that would take her to the parking lot.  She had an idea forming in her mind, but it all depended on timing . . . and the crowd.  Fortunately, luck seemed to be with her as a large group of people got on the walkway behind her, blocking the path of her pursuer.

Seizing the opportunity, she started to run toward the end of the catwalk.  Once there, she crouched down and did a sharp u-turn, huddling against the inside railing on the mover heading in the opposite direction.  She practically held her breath as she mentally calculated the point in which they would have passed each other.  The moment she thought that took place, she started crawling along the conveyer on her side, praying that her pursuer would not look back before she could reach the end.

Almost like the light at the end of a tunnel, that moment came and she quickly scurried off, moving to the side and out of the line of sight.  After waiting for just a moment, she sprinted towards the entrance of the airport.  Stepping outside into the bright California sun, she saw a hoard of cabs waiting to whisk passengers away.

"Amy!"

She heard the voice call out, a familiar one.  Looking around, she could not immediately find the source.  Inwardly, she prayed that it wasn't one of her friends from the neighborhood where she used to live.  A delay that kept her from her ride was the last thing that she needed right now . . . there was no telling when her pursuer would realize that she gave him the slip and backtrack.

"Amy!  Over here!" the voice called again.  That was followed by a quick bleat from a car horn, which drew her attention to the source.

She silently thanked her lucky stars that the voice calling her name belonged to her old colleague, who kept his word to pick her up at the airport.  She wasn't quite sure what she would have done if he hadn't shown up.

Moving swiftly, she walked over and got into the brown sedan, letting out a huge sigh of relief.  "Thanks Zack.  Now let's get out of here, and fast."

"Sure thing," he said, slipping the car into gear and pulling away.

Zachary Goldman could be considered as a nerd, mainly because of the glasses he wore, but Amy knew better.  He was one of the most brilliant men that she knew . . . a relative fountain of information.  They had worked for several years at the LA Courier Express, and he was the one who gave her the details necessary to help free another friend of hers when he was being held prisoner in Mexico.

"Amy, what's going on?  You jumped at the chance to be a foreign correspondent and were over there for almost two years, but now you suddenly come back.  What's the deal?  Jakarta and Europe not good enough for you?" he wondered, trying to break the air of silence between them.

"Those places are fine, Zack, but that's not it.  I just needed to come back and get some help on something . . . that's all," she replied, hoping that he would buy the half-truth.

"Hey, research is my specialty.  Remember when I gave you the info that helped you find Al?" he started, enthusiastic about the possibility of working with his friend again.

Amy was about to dismiss the idea of Zack helping her, but she realized that she could use all the background information she could get.  "I remember.  Listen, I'm into a really big story here that could mean the Pulitzer if it pans out.  You can't tell anybody about it, especially Grant.  He'd pull the plug on it before I can uncover any more proof, plus pull me off the foreign assignment for good."

"Whoa, this sounds really serious, Aim," Zack commented as he exited off the Century Freeway onto the 405 San Diego Freeway.

"It is really serious . . . and it could even be dangerous for you," she warned.

"I've been itching to get into some action since I left the Miami Herald.  The closest thing I got was having to break into Massey's place when you were trying to find him," he noted.

"Okay, then first thing's first," Amy started, as she began to think of a plan.  Her mind started creating a mental check list of things she needed to do, now that she was back in the States, and the order in which she needed to do it in . . . but one thing remained a priority.  "I need to run an ad in the classifieds."

"I can probably slip it past Eldridge so you can run it for free, but why the ad?" Zack wondered.

A small smile appeared on Amy's face for the first time since she had arrived back in Los Angeles.  "To contact some old friends . . ."


	4. Unexpected Visitor

_I know you haven't proven that Dr. Beckett has traveled back in time or that if having done so he can make an impact of global importance, but it is the opinion of this committee that such heroic undertakings advance the human cause and whether or not they succeed is not so important as the fact that we tried._

_\-- Senator Diane McBride, "Honeymoon Express"_

 

_Oh boy, I hate situations like this.  You go in trying to help mankind and, all of the sudden, you realize you're adjusting your halo in a two-way mirror._

_\-- Face, "Say it With Bullets"_

 

**Chapter 2: Unexpected Visitor**

 

TUESDAY, OCTOBER 26, 1999

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

10:30AM MOUNTAIN TIME

 

                Rear Admiral Albert Ernesto Giovanni Battista Calavicci mumbled words to the tune Volare, sound asleep within the bedroom adjoining his office.  When it was decided that he was going to be the Project Observer, Sam had figured that they had to make accommodations since Al probably would need to spend a considerable amount of time within the complex.

                "Admiral Calavicci . . ." a sultry female voice gently said.

                The ex-POW didn't answer.  Instead, he only tossed and turned a bit, settling down once more to continue his sleep.  That prompted the voice to call out again in a huffed tone, "Admiral Calavicci . . ."

                Again, there was no response.  After a moment, the strains of the song reveille piped into the room.  The startled Observer bolted upright in his bed, now wide awake.  In his training, even the Navy had used that to wake cadets in the morning.

                "I'm up . . . I'm up!  Shut that damned stuff off, Ziggy!" Al roared.

                The song ended abruptly as the parallel hybrid computer said, "I apologize, Admiral, but my other attempts to arouse you from your slumber proved unsuccessful."

                The Project administrator grumbled as he got up from his bed, stretched, and walked over to the sink to splash a bit of cold water on his face.  He grabbed a towel to dry himself off and grumbled, "Yeah, well I hope you have a damned good reason."

                "I do have a very valid reason, if you would allow me the chance to explain," the computer replied, almost sulking.

                "Cut to the chase, Ziggy," Al demanded, not in the mood for games after his rude wake up call.  He knew that the parallel hybrid computer could sometimes be very temperamental, so he had to be careful with what he said around Ziggy from time to time.  The last thing he needed was for the computer to pitch a fit, right when he needed info from Ziggy the most.

                "We have an arrival in the Waiting Room, and Senator McBride wishes to meet with you.  She has already checked in with the guards at the front gate."

                Al cursed under his breath.  With everything that had been going on of lately, he hadn't expected a surprise visit from Senator Diane McBride, chairperson for the committee that annually reviewed the funding for the Project.  She had become perhaps the biggest proponent for Quantum Leap, as well as its biggest confidant after she made the realization that Sam Beckett had saved her.  She would not have earned her position had the Nobel Prize winner not taken that initial Leap back in time or landed in her husband . . . heck, she probably would not have been alive if it wasn't for him.

                Even though she was a married woman, Al felt it necessary to try and make a good impression on the Senator.  "Is Dr. Beeks with the Visitor?" the Rear Admiral asked as he pulled out his dress white uniform.

                "Dr. Beeks is monitoring the Visitor, but he has not yet regained consciousness," the computer informed him.

                "Do you have any information on who Sam Leaped into or have a lock on him yet?" the Apollo astronaut wondered, slipping on his uniform slacks.

                "Until the Visitor regains consciousness, I am unable to, at this early point, ascertain who in time Dr. Beckett currently is or extrapolate what he needs to accomplish before he can Leap.  My father did not have the foresight to program me to be a mind reader.  Even if he had managed that impressive feat, I am unable to establish a lock on Dr. Beckett until you have entered the Imaging Chamber," the sultry female voice explained, much to Al's dissatisfaction.  The entire project had cost over $43 billion to build, and more than a third of those funds were allocated to building the hybrid parallel computer, so Al figured that it should have been smart enough to get that information without having to rely on the initial interviews with the Visitor.

                "Okay . . . contact me the moment the Visitor wakes up.  I'm going to go upstairs and meet with Senator McBride," the Rear Admiral advised, already buttoning up his jacket that was decorated with all of his medals and awards.  At least it was Senator Diane McBride meeting with him and not Senator Joe Weitzman . . .

 

 

WAITING ROOM

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

 

                He was groggy when he woke up, and very confused.  The last thing he had remembered was being in a van with his friends, and they were running away from . . . from . . .

                'Damn it!  Why can't I remember?' he thought to himself, starting to get very frustrated.

                He looked around, surprised to see that his surroundings were totally different.  He was in a blue room, on some sort of examination table.  His clothes were different . . . he now found himself in some sort of skin-tight, one-piece, white bodysuit instead of the two-piece suit and tie he had donned that morning.  Even his feet were completely bare.

                "Oh no, that was a $400 suit too . . ." he whined, hating to lose any of his suits.  They were essential to maintaining the air of high-class society that he tried to portray, as well as winning others over.

                Inwardly, he wondered if this was what . . . what Murdock went through each time he had to go back in to the mental ward of the VA hospital.  Perhaps this was a practical joke that his friends were trying to pull on him, but the longer this drew out, the more he began to doubt that notion and start believing that he was perhaps a prisoner . . .

                He didn't see any doors or door handles, but there had to be a way into and out of the room. Whoever stuck him in here wouldn't have been able to do so unless there was some kind of a doorway . . . somewhere. If there were any doors, the lack of any handles likely meant that they were probably locked from the outside.  That only further convinced him that he was being held against his will.  Considering how hard it was for him to even recall simple information that he normally knew, especially names, he tended to wonder if he had been drugged.

                The sound of a pneumatic hiss filled the room and drew his attention as an entryway appeared within what seemed like a solid wall. So, there was a door after all, just like he thought, but not one that was clearly visible. Looking up at the doorway that had appeared, he watched a black female enter.  She was wearing a fluorescent blue pantsuit, complimented by fluorescent pink shoes, belt, and a scarf that was folded in a triangle and draped neatly over her left shoulder, held down by a pin that seemed to glow.  Even her ear rings lit up . . .

                "Where am I?  What's going on?" the Visitor demanded.

                "Don't worry . . . I'm not going to harm you.  My name is Verbena Beeks.  What's yours?" she asked, trying to make conversation and get the essentials she knew that Ziggy needed to research the various options.

                "Am I a prisoner?" he pointedly wondered, seeming tense and on guard, as if he was waiting for someone to pull a gun on him or put him in handcuffs.

                "No . . . not exactly . . ." Verbena started to say, immediately noticing his defensive posture and tone of voice. Did his question mean that he was afraid of being in jail? And if it did, why was he so afraid of being imprisoned?

                "Not exactly?" he parroted, turning it around into a question, the frustration starting to seep into the tone of his voice. What was his name? He always came up with a plan, and he hated how sometimes that plan wasn’t shared right away. Granted, they usually worked out, but still . . . it frustrated him to no end when he had no idea of what was going on.

                Interviewing the Visitor was always the hardest part for Verbena.  To her, the Visitor looked exactly like Dr. Samuel Beckett, the brilliant quantum physicist and Nobel Prize winner who was her boss and employer.  It was difficult for her . . . knowing where Sam Beckett ended, and the persona of the Visitor began.

                "This isn't a prison or jail.  You were unconscious when you arrived, so we brought you here for . . . medical observation," Dr. Beeks told him, which wasn't too far from the truth. Leaping through time sometimes took a significant toll on the individual, both physically as well as psychologically, so a lot of those who ended up in the Waiting Room were initially unconscious or lapsed into that state once they realized the sudden change in their location.

                "So, I'm free to leave if I want to," he assumed based on her response, still trying to find some way out of this just in case it wasn’t what she said. He didn’t want to stay here any longer than he had to, although he couldn’t remember exactly why. It was just the need to get out of there that was so instinctual, so strong . . .

                "Well, not really.  We'd like to keep you here for a while, just to make sure that you're okay," she gently reaffirmed, trying to make him aware that she was genuinely concerned about his well being.

                "I'm not buying it.  I know a scam when I hear one.  I'm not telling you anything until I speak to the person in charge," the Visitor told her, folding his arms to indicate that he wasn't about to budge on the matter.

                The Project psychiatrist knew when to back off . . . when it was impossible to get through to a person.  She knew that Ziggy needed information from the Visitor so the computer could locate Dr. Beckett in time, thus establishing communication.  Right now, the only way it appeared she might get that data was to do as the Visitor requested.  She had to get Admiral Calavicci down here.

                "Okay, I'll go get the person in charge.  In the meantime, do you want anything to eat or drink?" she offered, hoping that maybe she could still get some kind of a breakthrough with the Visitor through a gesture of kindness.

                "How about a telephone and the key to get out of this room?" he quipped while flashing grin, trying to turn on the charm and hoping she would give in to his request. If he could just get out of this room, then maybe . . . just maybe . . . he could find out what was going on.

                To a certain degree, she could see right through him . . . almost a mirror image of Al.  She had to refrain from cracking a smile at the line he had fed to her.  "Sorry, but I can't help you on that one," she replied earnestly, taking that opportunity to exit the room before any damage could be done, or before he could talk her into something she wasn't able to provide.

                "Ziggy . . ." the psychiatrist spoke into the air.

                "Yes, Dr. Beeks?" a sultry female voice replied in it's usual heavy tone.

                "Contact Admiral Calavicci and inform him that his presence is requested here on the double," Verbena told the hybrid computer.

 

 

VISITOR'S AREA

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

 

                Al tugged on the bottom of his dress jacket to straighten it, and then stepped into the guest center at the Project.  It was a plain room with a few chairs, some light, and a table, but definitely a far cry from some of the rest of the furnishings within the lower sections of the complex.

                She was just how he had remembered when Sam had changed history, helping her to pass her bar exam which propelled her into her current seat as Senator and chair of the committee that annually reviewed the funding for Quantum Leap . . . 40 years older than the woman Sam had to protect when he Leaped into her husband, but just as beautiful.  "Senator McBride, it's a pleasure to see you again," he greeted her, extending his hand to shake hers.

                "Diane, please . . . we've known each other too long in working on the funding for this Project to revert to formal titles when we're not in a committee review, Al," she replied with a warm smile, returning the handshake.

                'Damn, she is good,' Al thought to himself, smiling.  She was right . . . 10 years ago was when Al Calavicci approached the government on behalf of Dr. Samuel Beckett to propose a project based on his theories and request funding for it. Although Dr. Donna Elesee now represented the Project at most of the committee meetings these days, there was still an occasional time where Al had to be there in person and continue to go to bat to make sure that funding wasn't cut off, and Sam Beckett would not be lost in time forever.  "If I had known you were coming, Diane, I would have prepared a reception for you," he noted.

                "I was in the neighborhood inspecting another government installation when I remembered your offer for a tour of this facility.  I hope I haven't come at a bad time . . ." she started to say almost apologetically.

                "You could never come at a bad time.  I would be honored to give you the grand tour . . . and I'm sure Ziggy would love to meet you," Al told her, the smile on his face broadening.

                "Isn't Ziggy a computer?  I remember seeing several pages of items dedicated to various upgrades," Diane mentioned.

                "A parallel hybrid computer," he corrected as he led the way to the elevator that would carry both of them into the heart of the facility.  "She's capable of tracking multiple timelines, has an ego bigger than Mount Everest, and has a special neuro microchip."

                "I think I've heard about it.  It's made up of brain tissue from both Dr. Beckett and yourself . . . the first of its kind.  And, if I remember correctly from reading your summary, it is what allows you to contact Dr. Beckett wherever he may be in time," she rattled off, trying to recall what she could about the top secret Project.

                Al looked at her with a bit of a sparkle in his eyes . . . convinced that, ever since she had figured out the truth, she really did care enough about Quantum Leap and Sam to try whatever she could to keep the funding flowing.  "You do remember . . . just like you had remembered Sam after the first funding hearing."

                "My memory is not photographic like Dr. Beckett's is, but I do recall a lot of things from time to time, especially when it's something that I feel passionate about," Diane replied, following the Navy Rear Admiral off the elevator.

                "I'll take that as a compliment," Al said lightly with another charming smile, leading the Senator down the hallway.  "The first couple of floors of the Project are set up for living space and general offices for most of our staff.  Not everyone lives here at the complex, but there are plenty of rooms available if they do need a place to stay.  Also on those floors is a rec room with televisions, a pool table and other games, a cafeteria with an excellent staff of cooks, plus a work-out room with weights, various exercise equipment, and an olympic size pool.  Heck, there's even a medical center with doctors, a pharmacy, and a surgery-trauma room, and electrical generators to create the power needed to keep the entire complex running should the power fail."

                She heard the extensive list of living amenities that were provided for those who wished to reside at the Project as Al pointed out the various locations, her eyes wide with astonishment.  "Now it's my turn to be impressed.  You and Dr. Beckett thought of everything when building this facility.  I can see why it cost $43 billion to construct this place."

                The former astronaut was about to show the senator his office when a sultry female voice pierced the air, seemingly coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.  "I hate to interrupt your tour Admiral, but Dr. Beeks is requesting your presence in her office."

                "What was that, Al?" Diane asked, stunned to hear a voice without seeing a body.

                "That was Ziggy . . . the computer I was telling you about," he said to her.  He then announced into the air, "Is there a problem, Ziggy?"

                "The Visitor has regained consciousness, but Dr. Beeks has been unsuccessful in her attempts to gain the information required to determine who Dr. Beckett has Leaped into," the sexy voice announced.

                That obviously wasn’t something that the Project Administrator wanted to hear, although he tried hard to keep his composure in front of Diane. He didn’t need her knowing that he wasn’t too happy right about now. "Inform Verbena that we'll be there in a few minutes," Al spoke into the air, and then turned to his guest about ready to apologize.

                "Duty calls, huh?" Diane quipped, her tone very understanding.

                "Afraid so.  Listen, I know I promised you the grand tour . . ." the former POW started to say apologetically. In a way, this was kind of why he didn't invite others from outside of the Project to come and visit, not even ones that had the clearance. There was no telling when Sam was going to Leap into someone, if he'd have to rush to the Imaging Chamber to fill Sam in on something important, or if he'd have to help Verbena deal with the Visitor in the Waiting Room.

                "No need to apologize.  I understand all too well, since the same often happens to me in my line of work," the Senator sympathized. "All of the committee meetings, things that come up at the last minute that demand your attention. It’s a bit of a challenge to try and keep a balance."

                "Well, if you don't mind a bit of waiting, maybe you could come down to the Control Room level with me.  I was going to show that to you on the tour anyways, and it'll give you a chance to see how we work when Sam's Leaped into someone," he suggested.

                "Sounds like a good idea, Al.  Lead the way . . ."

 

 

CONTROL LEVEL

PROJECT QUANTUM LEAP

STALLIONS GATE, NEW MEXICO

 

                The door to the elevator opened with a hiss, revealing a ramp that led into a large room with a strange console with multi-colored squares.  A technician wearing all white with a lab coat to match stood behind it with a clipboard in hand.  His brown curly hair was a bit disheveled, although his mustache was neatly groomed.

                "Good afternoon Admiral, Senator McBride.  Dr. Beeks is expecting you in her office," he greeted, looking up at them just for a brief moment before returning his attention to the printouts in front of him.

                "Don't mind him . . . that's just Gooshie.  In a way, he's kind of like Ziggy's mother, always dawdling over her and making sure that there's no problems.  Just don't get too close or your nose might regret it," Al told Diane with a bit of a grin as he ushered her up another ramp to the Observation Area.

                The look on her face clearly indicated that she had no idea what he was talking about with that comment towards one of his co-workers . . . although she was probably certain that she would find out.  The thing that drew her short of asking about that was the sight of the Waiting Room through the one-way glass . . . and her first real look of Dr. Samuel Beckett.

                "Is that . . .?" Diane started to ask, almost at a loss for words. She had met Dr. Beckett only once during the initial funding request for the Project . . . before he Leaped and Senator Joe Weitzman insisted on annual reviews of the funding.

                "Yes and no.  What you are seeing is the aura of Sam Beckett, almost like some kind of a metaphysical shell.  If you were to compare an EEG from Sam to the person in that Waiting Room, you would see that they're totally different.  If you were to go in there and talk to him, even the answers he would give you would be totally different," Al explained.

                This made the Senator very curious, since she was still trying to fathom how exactly everything worked. "If Dr. Beckett has a different aura when he's in the past, then how do you know that it's him when you make contact?" she wondered.

                "Most of us were outfitted with implants for security purposes.  Gooshie found a way to have Ziggy modify the programming on mine.  It works with my brain waves, allowing me to see Sam for himself when I contact him, and the person in the Waiting Room as themselves.  Until Gooshie made that modification, the first Leaps were rough, especially when Sam Leaped into a woman . . ." the Rear Admiral admitted, trailing off at the end almost as if he was reminiscing a fantasy of pleasure.

                "You should have seen him on that one, Senator.  He could hardly keep his eyes from popping out of his head whenever he looked at Dr. Beckett within the Imaging Chamber.  I'm Dr. Verbena Beeks, Project psychiatrist," an African American female said as she emerged from another door.

                There was a look of amusement on the face of Senator McBride, who had heard long time ago about the womanizing Albert Calavicci.  He had yet to disappoint . . .  "Good to meet you."

                "Sure, you had to tell her that part," Al quipped playfully.  "So what's the deal with our Visitor in there?"

                "He's a tough one, Admiral.  He refused to tell me anything, no matter how much I tried.  He says that he'll only talk to the person in charge," the psychiatrist noted. Her tone made it clear that Al was going to be the one who needed to go in there and get the information for Ziggy to start making projections on what Sam needed to do.

                "You couldn't get him to talk?" the Naval pilot asked in astonishment. That was a definite first, since most Visitors had no problem opening up and sharing what they could remember about their lives with the gentle psychiatrist.  "You're loosing your touch Beeksie."

                "Or maybe not.  I was able to pick up a couple of things based on the little he had said.  First, he seems to be concerned with the fact that he might be imprisoned, which is an indication that he could be wanted by law enforcement agencies," she began to explain, only to be cut off by Al.

                "Wanted by law enforcement?  Great, just what we need . . . another Leon Styles," he muttered. Inwardly, he hoped that they would be able to contain the Visitor this time around a lot better than what happened with Leon, and also that Diane wouldn’t ask about what happened.

                Not missing a beat, and ignoring Al's comment, Verbena continued, "Second, he seems to have a genuine respect for authority.  Third, he's a bit of a charmer, probably even more than you when you were in your prime, Admiral."

                "Hey, I'm always in my prime," Al countered with a sly grin.  "I'll be right back, Diane.  Bena can turn on the microphones within the room so you can listen in on the conversation."

                The Navy Rear Admiral walked into the Waiting Room with an air of authority about him, immediately laying eyes on the Visitor.  Instead of the aura of Dr. Samuel Beckett, his best friend who was trapped in time, he saw a white male who was a bit younger with well groomed dark sandy blonde hair with natural golden highlights.  Although he couldn't place a finger on it, somehow this person looked vaguely familiar . . .

                Seeing a uniformed officer enter the room, especially one with a much higher rank than him, the Leapee immediately snapped to attention and offered a salute.  'Definitely military,' Al thought to himself as he returned the salute.  "At ease.  What's your name, rank and serial number, son?"

                "Peck, Templeton . . . 1st Lieutenant, US Army . . . serial number 413624B," he replied, relaxing his stance slightly. He couldn’t place why, but the person that stood before him . . . the guy in charge . . . there was just something about him that put him at ease, and eliminated any thought that there was some kind of a possible threat against him.

                Al was overwhelmed with shock upon hearing that name, one from his past in Vietnam and had crossed his desk on several occasions.  He tried hard to keep the look on his face stoic and authoritative.  Clearing his throat in an attempt to regain his composure, he announced flatly, "I'm Admiral Calavicci, the person in charge of this complex.  I hear you wanted to speak with me, Lieutenant."

                "I'd like to know what is going on here, Admiral.  Am I a prisoner?" Templeton asked, inwardly thankful that someone with some kind of rank or authority showed up to possibly answer his questions.

                "If you mean if you're under arrest, no," the former POW started to say, not able to get much further before being interrupted.

                "Then I can leave . . ." Peck assumed. Even though there was something familiar about this guy, there was still the inherent and instinctual need to leave, even though he still didn’t know why. It was almost like a distant fog at the back of his memory, which refused to clear.

                "I'm afraid we can't let you do that . . . for your own safety, among other reasons," Al stressed, trying hard not to reveal too much since he didn’t want to overwhelm him too soon and end up with a catatonic Leapee . . . someone who couldn’t provide any details that may be needed to help Sam.

                "Admiral, if I'm not under arrest but I can't leave here, will you at least please tell me what is going on?" the Army Lieutenant pleaded, starting to sound really frustrated due to all of the confusion. His voice betrayed him and indicated the anxiety with needing to leave.

                "You happened to wander into a top secret instillation.  Unless you have proper clearance, I can't tell you much more than that because it's classified," Al replied firmly.  The silence between the two of them was enough to tell the Apollo astronaut his answer.  "But, we could use answers to some of our own questions.  First, do you remember what the date is?"

                "May 12, 1986," Templeton replied, not thinking that there could be any danger in revealing the date.

                "And what was the last thing you remember before waking up here?" Al wondered, hoping to get a bit more info that could help figure out what Sam had ended up in the middle of.

                "I was in a van with my, uh, associates.  I'm not sure why, but I can't remember their names or what we were doing.  Why am I having problems remembering things?" Lt. Peck said, turning his answer around into another question.

                "That's a side effect, probably traumatic shock from Le . . " Al started to say, quickly catching himself before he could make a major error.  "From being caught, but there's nothing to worry about.  We conducted some examinations to make sure that everything was okay.  The gaps in your memory will fill in time.  I have to go check on another situation, but I'll be back in a while.  Dr. Beeks will probably want to talk to you as well." Inwardly, Al hoped that Templeton would be more accepting of Verbena's conversation this time around.

                "Do you have any cute nurses you could send in to keep me company?" the Visitor asked with a bit of a boyish grin, trying to turn on the charm. At least if there was a woman or two, it would certainly help him pass the time a lot faster . . . and in so many ways!

                "I'll see what we can do," Al replied, and then exited the Waiting Room.  The moment he saw Verbena, he gave her a coy grin.  "He's all ready for you.  Time to work your magic, Beeksie."

                "You know what I do doesn't have anything to do with magic, Admiral," Verbena replied earnestly, and then disappeared into the Waiting Room.

                Diane McBride had watched and listened to the whole conversation, and was clearly stunned at the answers that was given by the person currently within the Waiting Room.  "Al, that was incredible!  That person looks exactly like Dr. Beckett, who's never served in the military, but his answers and actions indicate that he has," she expressed.

                "I know.  It was pretty hard for me the first few times until Ziggy made that modification to my implant.  But, the job isn't done yet.  I have to go into the Imaging Chamber and tell Sam what we've come up with.  I can have Gooshie set you up at a video screen, and Ziggy can project what I see in the Imaging Chamber on there," the Navy Rear Admiral suggested.

                "I can't go in there with you?" Senator McBride wondered, hoping that maybe she could get a chance to meet Sam Beckett . . . where ever he was in time . . . and personally thank him for saving her life.

                "You could, but you wouldn't be able to see anything except for a big room with me talking to thin air," he revealed.  "I might be able to set something up for later on, but the last time we did it, it drew so much power that we could light up all of St. Louis for a month!"

                "If you could, I would like that. I would like to personally thank Sam for what he did to help me," Diane replied with an understanding smile as the two of them walked back into the Control Room.


End file.
